  I knew not who had wrought with skill so fine What I beheld; nor by what laws of art He had created life and love and heart On canvas, from mere color, curve and line. Silent I stood and made no move or sign; Not with the crowd, but reverently apart; Nor felt the power my rooted limbs to start, But mutely gazed upon that face divine. And over me the sense of beauty fell, As music over a raptured listener to The deep-voiced organ breathing out a hymn; Or as on one who kneels, his beads to tell, There falls the aureate glory filtered through The windows in some old cathedral dim. |
|
